


When You Were Made

by heckmedic



Series: IS; WAS; WILL BE [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Body Dysphoria, Dissociation, F/M, M/M, Needles, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smoking, Time Travel, Trans Male Character, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckmedic/pseuds/heckmedic
Summary: Time heals all wounds. But Overwatch, perhaps, is the medium which it works throughor: the story of how Jesse McCree changes his fate, and how Lena Oxton finds her wings.





	1. ACT ONE: KINDLING

**"** _I wrote these stories because I felt like they needed to be set free. Something about them was eating me up inside. If I'd held onto them any longer, I think some of them might've even killed me. Feel free to read them; choose what ones you like best. But be careful. The best of them have teeth._ **"**

                                    ~J. ?? // JUNE ?TH 20XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So another longfic from me, the worst person in the world at longfic. I apologise in advance for slow and irregular updates, and the likelihood that this fic might go unfinished. Consider yourself warned.
> 
> ~Leon


	2. PROLOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She says son it's time to summon the courage and  
> Run for your life, child  
> Flee into the night while  
> We still have the chance to make it out here alive  
> Even though we walk through the valley of death you feel no evil  
> You will survive"
> 
> ~Josh Garrels // Hiding Place
> 
> (Jesse doesn't know what it means to be a man. But he knows very young what it means to not be one)

He’s nine, and has stopped wearing dresses ( _they get in my way, and Ma just moans when I stain ‘em_ ). Still, when the summer herding season rolls around, he watches the cowboys in their denim and plaid shirts, watching with a sort of green distaste. He thinks he hates their swagger; their height; the low and throaty laughs which fill the diners during the summer (they don’t deter him from going there twice a week to get his ice cream fix, however). In truth, he doesn’t hate them. He refuses to admit that he’s caught up in youthful admiration; in jealousy. Somehow sensing he might never _quite_ have that indescribable thing which they do.

Another dark scowl as he swings his legs idly from where he sits upon the garden fence. He hurls another stone at the weather-beaten limbs of the sycamore at the end of the yard. **Crack** \- _plick_ goes the pebble.

  
“Stupid” Jesse huffs bitterly to himself.

It’s unclear if he’s speaking about himself or the cowboys.

 

* * *

  
He’s ten, and his hair is in shreds on the bathroom floor. His father’s sheep shears shine dully on the chipped porcelain rim of the sink. Downstairs his mother cries in shrill Spanish; his father intercepts now and again to placate her, switching between his native tongue and the English he speaks with a lilt as he goes.

  
_She’s your daughter, David, go and speak to her!_

_Ai, you’re the woman, you should’ve, I don’t know, shown her how to **braid** it or something-_

_Don’t take that tone with me, cielos, she looks like a little boy now!_

_Calm down, Lola, God, it’ll grow back-_

_That’s not the point-_

  
And so it continues.

  
Jesse does his best to ignore them, and his stomach dances uncomfortably between gleeful delight and sick dread. He purses his lips and ruffles his hair again; the loose waves having tightened into true, unruly curls. Unconsciously trying to mimic the way the cowboys do it when they run their hands through their sweat-soaked hair before replacing their wide-brimmed hats.

  
A few hours later, his father takes him out behind the house and he has screwed his eyes shut, expecting a sharp cuff like his Ma always gives him when he is underfoot in the kitchen. A brief discomfort, and a faint red ache to follow. Instead, he finds his father’s hands taking his own, folding them around something that is smooth and cool and heavy. When he opens his eyes and sees the revolver laying in his hands, he gives a faint breath of shock and drops it in the dust as though stung. A mild tch of reprimand before the gun is replaced in his grip, held firmly there by capable hands.

  
_If you’ve gotta have something in your hands, at least make it something useful. A pen, a screwdriver, anything._

_But this ain’t a screwdriver._

_No, it’s not. But a screwdriver can’t keep you safe if some fellow in the street decides he wants to try and take you away, can it?_

_Guess not._

  
And in his mind the sepia recollections of the newspaper headlines (TEENAGER SNATCHED - FOURTH IN THREE YEARS) and then the flickering frames of the westerns he is so fond of; of hostages taken by masked men as insurance. As prizes. He shivers.

  
_Now. She ain’t loaded right now, but why don’t you try lifting her up, make like you’re going to shoot the bamboos off the windchime hanging from the porch._

  
Hesitantly, he raises his arms, cupping the butt of the revolver in his narrow hands. Feeling the stretch and pull of the muscles in his forearms against the weight of the barrel, the chamber which glints in the low evening sun. The wind chime lines up in his sights; he holds his breath. Behind him, crouched so as to look along the barrel with his ~~daughter~~ son, David McCree breathes out steadily, slowly. Not wanting to shake Jesse’s sudden stillness.

  
_Now. When you’re ready, you pull back the hammer with your thumb, that’s it like that, go on-_

The click sends a thrill through Jesse’s veins. His arms are starting to ache now, but he doesn’t move, he daren’t. Not if it means he loses this perfect frame of that wind chime swaying slowly, teasingly at him in the breeze. The cool rosewood of the grip in his palms. The sensation of gravity shifting; pulling and swaying to center around the gun which drinks of the summer light in his hands; stars following new paths in the heavens unseen to orbit him.

  
_Finger on the trigger. When you’re ready, you shoot._

  
Jesse breathes and hones in on the windchime; he doesn’t see his father take a small pebble from the ground near his heels and pull back his arm, ready to throw.

  
_Watch it, ok. She kicks._

_Ok_

  
Another few seconds, an eternity. Stillness. For once, no need nor desire to move, pick, fidget, tear, pluck. Just the sun and the breath of evening and the gun so alien and heavy in his hands. Peace. He pulls the trigger. And though no bang follows, no kickback, he mimes it lightly for effect, a small smile tugging at his lips. Half a second later, the pebble smacks the bamboo of the chime, rattles it off it’s hook and makes it crash onto the porch. A shrill cry from his mother within, inquiring as to what they think they’re doing.

  
A shared snigger at that before he gently hands the gun back, shy, as though holding it were holding the hand of a playground crush.

_So. You wanna learn how to do it proper?_

_Yeah. Yeah, I do._

_Well go inside and say sorry to your Ma for hacking off your hair and be good all tomorrow, and I’ll show you after dinner. Alright?_

_Alright._

 

* * *

  
He’s twelve, and has stopped behaving like a girl almost entirely. He sits with his legs loose and relaxed, splayed wide to accommodate something he does not have. The girls in the school snicker at him; he winks back.  His parents don’t know about the one time he kissed Maria in the cloakroom, or when Chloe ushered him behind the fire escape and lifted up her shirt to let him ogle the budding shapes on her chest. He doesn’t like the shape of those which are forming far too swiftly on his own body. they just don’t look right like hers had.

Maybe they just weren’t done yet or something.

His father is drinking again. Sometimes he leaves for days at a time; asking his mother if she still loves him when he comes back. The paychecks he brings home are few and far between; little Jemma is wearing Jesse’s old clothes on account of their mother not being able to afford new ones.  One day, their father leaves, and he does not come back.

Josephine and his mother are shouting, screaming at each other fit to rattle the roof, so Jesse rushes outside and blinks away the salt in his eyes. Lines up beer bottles on the back fence; six, all Corona, two of them his. The gun stolen from the box his father keeps it locked in under the mantle of the fireplace (he doesn’t use hairgrips anymore, aside for picking locks with). He loads like that now-absent figure had shown him, spreads his feet in the dust, raises the muzzle, takes aim. Six times the gun speaks, and each time it says the same comforts to him in a low, loud roar.

  
_It’s going to be ok._  
_You’re not alone._  
_You’re not a freak, or a weirdo, or a creep._  
_You’ll be forgiven, in time._  
_Someday people will see you how you want them to._  
_You’re going to be just fine._

  
By the time he lowers the gun, still smoking, his mother and Josephine have ended their screaming match. Glass tinkles on the ground as it falls from the fence posts. Stunned silence from the two figures watching from the kitchen window. At his side, Jesse clenches and unclenches his fist.

 

* * *

  
He’s thirteen, and has stopped attending school. Drifting in and about town, hanging out with a crowd of boys whose brows are permanently furrowed into frowns of suspicion. Always spoiling for a fight.  They only let him hang around with them when he punched Jimmy straight in the nose ( _girls can’t hang with us-_ )  
He finds an ill-fitting fringed leather jacket for five dollars in the Goodwill on the edge of town. The shoulders are too wide, but they are padded nicely. If he stands in front of the mirror and sucks his disappearing puppy fat in, he loses his incoming hourglass. It looks good.

 

* * *

  
He’s fourteen when a new kid joins their rag-tag group, finds himself being asked what his name is. Finds himself stuttering the first syllable (when did it start feeling so strange to say?) He struggles for the rest of the day to speak like he has been recently too. An old height returning to his tone which hasn’t been there for a while. At odds with the sharp, half-feral look he otherwise has. A ruffian with Goldilocks’s tongue. He doesn’t say anything at the dinner table later that day. Around him, his sisters chatter, oblivious.

 

* * *

  
It’s three days until Halloween when he tells them. Quietly, in the half-dark of Josephine’s attic room, surrounded by books and the tatty pink rug she’s thrown over the creaking floorboards.

  
_So….Are you saying you don’t want to be a girl anymore?_  
_Maybe. I dunno. Kinda wonder if I ever was a girl._  
_Ok…..But, what about your name? You’ve still got a girl’s name._

A soft sigh as he presses the heels of his hands to his temples, avoids the concerned eyes of his younger siblings.

_Yeah. I do._

There is not enough money that week for their mother's prescriptions. Laid up in bed as she is, the children fret and worry as to what they'll do. Unsaid, they all worry as to whether child support might get involve. Jesse scowls at the television. Josephine hops out early in the morning to get groceries, and is gone for a long time. Later, there are pills for their mother again, which Jesse finds odd.

He does not figure out who Josephine is borrowing money from until it is too late.

 

* * *

  
He thinks about it for a long time. Decides he wants to keep the J, at least. His thoughts are often caught up in the past; trying to find the exact moment he’s convinced he has experienced where some thread in the fabric of his being decided to weave itself differently. He thinks of the ranch hands in the summer; the girls in the school; of the gang; of the leather jacket which he’s filling out a little better. Of the underwear he never enjoyed because the modest lace skirting the edges cut into him. Of the way he’d used to steal his mother’s makeup in fascination. Of the hours he’d spent in front of the mirror, feeling that something wasn’t quite right, but not downright wrong either.

  
His thoughts are far from such things when the taller fellows from the card games he has been attending are beating his face in; when Josephine is wriggling her way out of the bathroom window and **running** \- cars outside - boots in front of his face.

  
_You look like you need a smoke kid._

  
Later, in the smoky interior of the car which cruises, leopard-like, about the estates. Aimlessly prowling.

  
_So. What’s your name._

  
His mismatched eyes flicker upwards, over the bloodied mess of his nose. Defiant and stained with bruise. A man who will later introduce himself as Abraham Finch smiling slyly from around his cigar. Curious and fox-like.

  
_Jesse. M’name’s Jesse._

 

* * *

  
It sticks.

  
For once, something clicks. He lets himself grin easier now; lets himself walk differently; stand taller; bicker in a low and dusty tone with his friends, coworkers, fellow Hellraisers. He gets that tattoo with Theo when he’s just turned sixteen. The patch for the back of his biker jacket a few days later. _There, part of the family proper now,_ they say as the ink is driven under his skin. Eyes blow wide when he gets his first wad of cash tied up with a rubber band. Even wider when he gets his first sniff of marijuana; then amphetamines, then other things with names too long for him to care about.

He becomes familiar with quick gropes in the diner bathrooms. Favors called in; others earned. Sweat shared with other men, sometimes girls if they’re around. (it’s not so bad; what he’s got works just fine; feels even better. No one’s complained about it yet)

  
Two rolls of tape beside his scrubby bunk in their coyote den. One for his hands, to stop his knuckles being bloodied. Another for his chest. Needles of several kinds litter the bathroom sink; the shots he takes in his leg make him feel good, but not like the way the heroine does.

 

* * *

  
He’s seventeen when he gets enough hair to trim into a goatee just under his lips; his first. The waitresses in the diner comment on it; fawn over him dramatically; Jesse loves it. When he visits the flower shop to make a purchase for Finch ( _I want to leave these guys a calling card; go and buy a bunch of roses or something_ ), he sees her standing behind the counter shaping a bouquet of white cala lillies with her slender hands. Blush creeps up his throat; there’s something about the braided fall of her blonde hair; the freckles on her face; the shy little tuneless hum dying on her lips that makes his heart skip. When she turns and asks him what he wants, she giggles at how he finds the sudden need to clear his throat, the way he fumbles for his coins. Later, he asks her if she wants to meet him at the diner, share a shake or something, maybe. She agrees, and that is how the happiest five months of Jesse’s life begin.

  
Lucy loves the beard almost as much as he does; she pets his wild scruff affectionately, the way one might pet a dog, when they laze in her bed and listen to worn out vinyls.  
She tells him one day that she loves it even more when it is not her hands she is feeling with.

  
Two weeks later, she hears tell from a friend about who he really is. What he does. Why he won’t let her come home with him (the fetid bunk rooms in the warehouse are not any place to take one’s girlfriend). Their breakup is tearful and passionate and awful. Jesse starts getting careless; makes mistakes. Tired of him, Finch has some associates dig him a grave. Theo is the one who saves him, muddied and heaving, from that pressing darkness.

  
Three days later, Jesse finds himself in a whole new world of trouble.

  
He knows this when he sees the silver aircraft incoming.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: yes, I'm writing Jesse as trans, as well as latinx and Roman Catholic. I, however, whilst being non binary, am part of none of these groups. I would be greatly interested in enlisting sensitivity readers for future chapters to ensure that I am writing Jesse accurately and as he deserves to be written. Reviews and comments as well as constructive criticism are welcomed, and help me to write better, faster.
> 
> ~Leon


	3. CHAPTER ONE: ROCK IT FOR ME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "With their leather jacket and their rocky voice  
> They hit, fight, kick, wreak havoc and rejoice  
> Nobody knows what they are looking for  
> A kind of battle axe or maybe more"
> 
> ~Rock It For Me // Caravan Palace
> 
> (The sting happens. Jesse has a bad day. Lena receives a scare she'll remember forever)

Everything went to shit at around about 11 AM in the morning.

An hour into the op, and Lena was fidgeting in the co-pilot's seat. The two squads were both out doing their work; cuffing wrists, breaking heads in where that wasn’t an option. Disarming the multitude of booby traps the gang had laid out for them. That and presumably sweating inside their armor; Route 66 was hot as Hell itself, the pilot was sure. Bleached all to faded brown and orange by the unrelenting sun; the home only of coyotes and lizards and a certain number of dangerous fools and their merchandise. Leaning forwards, Lena turned up the volume on the pilot’s music channel; he cast her a warning glance.

“You’re bored.”

“I’m not, I’m not-”

A wry smile slid onto his face; eyes laughing beneath the blue cast of his visor. He watched her squirm in the seat; hands fiddling with the seams of her gloves; knee jogging; teeth worrying at her lower lip. _Classic Oxton_. Eyes dancing around the dusty scenery visible through the ballistic shield of the cockpit screen. Now and again, Blackwatch operatives would be visible as dark glimpses amidst the run-down buildings, wrestling captured criminals back to the drop ship, exchanging gunfire with those brave enough to face the more heavily armed and armored special ops forces flushing them out. Two matte-painted helicopters crouched on the shimmering tarmac beside the silver gleam of the dropship, the muzzles of the guns mounted on their sides pointed down as though asleep. The pilot shrugged and turned the volume back down again. They could both hear the distant gunfire through the hull of the dropship. He did, however, open a private channel to the officer leading the raid.

“We got an estimated time of departure yet, Goldilocks?”

A burst of static before the line was opened up; the other man’s deep voice broken by heavy breaths. In the background, scuffling, a swear, other voices not discernible.

“Quarter of an hour, Oracle. Why, you worried about trouble?”

“Not at all sir, just that my dear co-pilot is getting restless.”

“Settle her down then. We’re not done here yet; still rounding up the stragglers.”

“Roger that. Oracle out.”

The channel closed with a distinct snick in the cockpit. Sitting back in his seat, the pilot checked the status of his aircraft before he felt her grow too quiet beside him. He followed her line of sight out to the helicopters, and the red and white logos emblazoned on their tails. It was too far to see clearly, but he felt the hollow eyes of the Blackwatch ram skull watching him anyway. The shadow of Overwatch’s own golden standard; today’s coworkers. That thought made his nerves tense.

“Lena. Focus.”

A soft sigh and rustle of clothing beside him; Lena’s sharp face resolving into an uncertain expression. She took a moment to look for some suitable words. For once, not chattering ten to the dozen beside him.

“I just worry about them.”

“No need. Blackwatch can look after themselves just fine”

In her mind’s eye, a glimpse of the Blackwatch medics. Dressed in dark Kevlar, the four wings of their Valkyrie suits folded. Angular, swift, masked and armored to match their flightless counterparts. The stun guns and pistols strapped to their thighs. Sleek and swift as wasps; their stings expressed as sharp little serrated blades on the ends of their staffs. She looked away from the helicopters quavering in the heat.

“I know. But I wouldn’t wish a gang raid on anyone, Heath. It’s a rough job.”

Heath made a little noise of laughter, plucked at the hem of his sleeve. Craning his neck, he tracked the orange-bolt of a medic’s flight path from one roof to another; saw the bright flashes of gunfire his movement drew. A moment later, the muffled echo of the gunshots from the red canyon walls.

“Someone’s gotta do it. Couldn’t get much out of Reyes but from what he told me these Deadlock kids are ruthless. Halfway to animals.”

“Animals with guns.”

He shrugged, unable to disagree. He saw the medic land in a low crouch on the roof over the scrambling body of a startled attacker. He spun his staff deftly before taking it in both hands and driving it blade-end down into the unseen assailant as though planting a flag in the earth. Even the ones who cared were vicious. The radio crackled to life; a voice different but no less commanding than that of Goldilocks carrying over the airwaves. Hoarser, perhaps a shade older. That, or he had simply seen more than his blonde-haired equal. Heath didn’t miss the way Lena sat to attention beside him. Rapt as a young child glimpsing her idol on the television screen.

“All hostiles neutralised, Oracle. Confirm status?”

“Green across the board, Diablo. Ready for lift-off.”

“Roger that. Prepare for takeoff in eight minutes.”

After a moment, a figure in the distance emerged from the shaded doorway of the gas station(shot to pieces; fall-down; plastered in dust). He dropped his hand from his earpiece and cast a thumbs-up towards the cockpit of the dropship before moving back inside. A rare sighting of the Commander in his natural environment. Heath made a point of not looking at the dark smudges his boots left on the pale grey surface of the road.

He allowed himself a small moment of worry; he wasn’t blind to the way Lena looked at Reyes and his pack of trained wolves. _Oxton and her daydreams again._ A distraction was in order; little risk too seeing as it sounded like they were just mopping up the last dregs.

“You wanna go and get a couple of water bottles, Oxton? I’m dying over here”

And it was in amongst the chinkings of her safety harness and the quiet chatter of Heath’s mission music from the cockpit loudpspeakers that it all began.

Roughly half a second after Lena had left her seat, the cockpit erupted into noise; multiple communications channels flaring to life in dissarray and three different alarms blaring shrilly through the drop ship, lights blinking up red and angry on the dashboard of the cockpit. Bullets ricocheted off the ground outside; pinging sharply off the curved hull of the craft’s nose. Lena was back in her seat like a shot before Heath grabbed her shoulder and slammed her forwards-

“ _Head down!_ Goldilocks, we’re taking fire, eyes on the shooter?”

“Negative, Oracle, we don’t have a location on the shooter yet.”

“I’ve got a red light showing for landing gear already; bastard must’ve shot out the couplings. Sir, if we stay here any longer we’re flying a _colander_ back home-”

“Hold your ground, we’re tracking back the muzzle flash now. Keep this channel open.”

A tense thirty seconds passed; heavy with the too-loud shudders of Lena’s startled breathing once Heath had muted the alarms to silent red flashes. Lena made the mistake of peeking up and out; half a second later there was another shot; this time denting the darkened glass of the windshield. More alarms; Lena’s gasp beside him and Heath punched the transmit button on his headset again. Stray bullets continued to land with dull rings on the hull; in the tarmac before them, in the tyres of the ground transports. The drop-ship reverberated as the gunners aft and fore snapped their crosshairs towards the road looking for a target to lock onto. Heath barked at them to hold their fire before they began shooting back blindly to cover the cetacean bulk of the aircraft.

“Goldilocks, please confirm location on the shooter, he’s trying to shoot out our windshield. We’re sitting ducks here!”

Another voice took over the line; calm, collected, smooth with an Arabic inflection and heaps of experience.

“Advancing to the East, Goldilocks. I may have eyes on the shooter. Oracle, tell your gunners to hold their off before we start taking friendly fire.”

“Take a suppressive shot, Mama Bear, we’re gonna flank to the West.”

“Roger that Diablo. On the count of three.”

“One. Two. Three. Move-”

The bright traces of the sniper fire crossed the deserted expanse of the street; pecked at the roof of the saloon. Shaped cornices of painted wood erupted into sawdust which floated away on the thin wind. The shooter’s fire stopped for long enough for the two squads to advance to the blast door set across the width of the road; slip through the unguarded channels to either side. Half dressed in blue, half in black and grey. They made it through without issue and then Diablo spoke again;

“Happy, go with Goldilocks. Kuler, you’re with me.”

They heard the squads split up; another ring from the shooter further up the canyon. Lena twitched.

“Goldilocks, I have eyes on a hostile. He’s young.”

“How young?” Diablo returned. Another shot, then another. One two. Diablo huffed something along the lines of _little brat_ over the channel.

“Sixteen, seventeen, perhaps. Be alert for other hostiles: I’m not sure if he’s your shooter; I can’t see a rifle.”

“Kuler, did your scans reveal any biosigs when we went through looking for pretenders?”

A moment of silent confusion, muffled voices. Diablo sighed.

“Alright, negative on the second shooter, Mama Bear. Kid must’ve ditched the rifle soon as you pinned him down. Let’s go.”

“There’s a walkway which connects the saloon to the roof of the auto shop, and a fire-escape behind the building. If you both want to flank him at the same time, one of you is going to have to take the walkway and distract him.”

“I’ll do it.” _Goldilocks, living up to his poster-boy rep._

“Ping me when you’re in position. Kuler, get ready to send up a drone from the road; we’re gonna spook him to buy some time. Hey Goldilocks, you catch that?”

“Roger. I’m at the roof door in the autoshop. Ready when you are.”

“Drone warmed up. Can you hear the fans, Goldilocks?”

“Yes. I’m running as soon as I hear it take off.”

“Roger that.”

Over the edge of the cockpit, Lena and Heath saw the distant gleam of the drone rise up over the red wall of the canyon. After a moment, it exploded in a shower of light as it drew the shooter’s attention ( _kid’s scared; shooting at anything that moves; can’t see beyond the muzzle of his gun; impulsive to the point of being trigger happy_ ) and then there was more chaos over the comms; wild gunshots; a muffled grunt of pain but they couldn’t be sure who it was from. The black-armored medic whom Heath had watched strike out on the roof bolted over, biotics already being breathed from his staff even before his hardlight wings had opened.

Diablo spoke first.

“Hostile apprehended. Oracle, tell your gunners to stand down, warm up the engines. We’re getting out of here.”

“Roger that, Diablo. Gunners standing down, beginning pre-flight checks.”

“All operatives return to LZ; please confirm”

The drop-ship shook again as the guns returned to their standard positions and the various medics and lingering operatives sounded off and began heading back; Heath blew out a steady breath as they both finally sat back up from where they’d been hunched over, trembling, under the fire of the shooter.

Lena’s hands quaked slightly before she began working the controls.

“Some kid, huh?”

Heath shrugged.

“Like I said. Deadlocks’ nothing but animals.”

They occupied themselves with getting ready to get the hell out of dodge until Diablo and Goldilocks came out of the tunnels beside the blast doors. Diablo was dragging someone behind him and he paused beside Goldilocks when a blue-armored hand landed on his shoulder. Lena’s eyes snapped to the audio trace of the open comms channel when they started arguing.

“Like Hell-”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t see him shoot out the transport tires-”

“I also saw him shoot one of your medics’ ears off!”

“C’mon, Goldilocks, I’m asking nicely-”

“Can it. I’m having words with you when we get back.”

The line crackled before Mama Bear spoke up;

“You two need to move; I’ve got something coming in at eleven o’clock on heatscan.”

“What is it?”

“Unclear, I’m trying to- _HEADS **DOWN!** MOVE MOVE MO-_ ”

Her assessment was cut off by a roaring boom from within the heart of the canyon; the horizon blossomed into fire a moment after. Heath’s face went white upon hearing Diablo huff over the channel;

“Door were rigged-”

Lena watched as Diablo hunched over and lifted the kid he had been dragging alongside him into an inelegant fireman’s hold; his protests were dimly audible over the roar of the growing chain of explosions as it spread through the warehouse and the feedback loop through Diablo's earpiece. Heath’s hands flew over the console as whorls of dust rose up and away from the aircraft engines. A low hum growing steadily louder and higher as the turbines reached full speed and the drop ship rose up and dipped forwards slightly as gracefully as a dancer moving to her toes. Heath’s music soared to a higher volume; his flair for drama flooding the cockpit in the form of bright jazz music which was such an odd counterpart to the grim chaos unfolding outside - _Cause you know we’re living in the fast lane, speed up, it ain’t no game, just turn up all the beams when I come up on the scene-_

Lena’s hand hovered over the button to lift the ramp and Goldilocks was on first, catching Diablo's arm as he dove for it. A split second later and Heath yanked the joysticks back. The drop ship arced up and away just as the fire spread to the gas station and a fireball engulfed the space the drop-ship had occupied not a moment before - _Hey, brother, what you thinking? That good ol’ sound is ringing-_

After a moment, Lena became distantly aware of the stench of burned clothing in the air circulation; Diablo cursed distantly over the singed legs of his pants. Heath closed the comms channel just as Goldilocks called out over the ship-wide intercom;

“Headcount in one minute! All non-essential personnel report to the passenger deck immediately _-Lieutenant; turn your **fucking** music off_.”

Lena was out of her harness in an instant as the jazz music died away with an undignified squawk of the speakers, unmindful of the bumps of turbulence as Heath brought the drop ship up to cruising altitude. Inside the passenger deck was a scene of chaos; Goldilocks stood blue and white amidst the grey tones of the interior; mouthing silently as he counted his men, then his wounded, then his men again. Diablo, on the other hand, sat nonchalantly in one of the bucket seats, harness unfastened, as though watching people in a busy street.

In amongst all the medics moving with bloodied wads of bandages, and technicians squeezing to and fro with datapads, her eye was drawn by a movement which did not belong. Red and umber; slouched beside Diablo and held there by the iron grip on his shoulder. The shooter.

He sat back and flicked the hair out of his eyes and Lena caught his gaze across the room; a white hot second of scrutiny which sent a spark of fear crawling up her spine. Yes, he was young, but his eyes were wild. Wild and golden and hot with hatred and anger and a sly, low cunning. Coyote’s eyes.

And then suddenly the little motion of him sitting back grew, snowballed. Voices raised in alarm as his shoulder was wrenched from Diablo's grasp and he surged out of the chair to his feet. Then there was shouting and more noise, Diablo's bark of _sit **down**_ rising above the din as she took a step backwards into the corridor. One of the Blackwatch medics thought quickly and dug something out of their belt, slipped up behind the rangy figure of the angry young man and yanked his head to the side. A swift gleam of a needle which vanished beneath tanned skin and a moment later much dry laughter as his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell in a heap on the floor.

Diablo clicked his tongue.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Omid "Oracle" Heath belongs to [Nadine](http://frstaid.tumblr.com/). A few of her other OCs will make appearances later alongside a few of my own. There will be a fleeting instance of OC/Canon character shipping, sort of, later for those who want to be forewarned about such things. I hope even with callsigns/codenames, all the characters here were easily recognizable. As always, reviews, comments and constructive criticism is welcomed! It motivates me to carry on writing.
> 
> References:
> 
> [Here](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/4/41/Complete_heterochromia_plus_anisocoria.jpg/960px-Complete_heterochromia_plus_anisocoria.jpg) is an image which is as close as I could find to Jesse's heterochromia. One eye is dark brown, whereas the other is hazel, bordering upon amber.
> 
> [Here](http://www.flagmodels.com/fashion/model/KEVIN%20S./274) is Heath's facelcaim. He's a beautiful creature.
> 
> [Heath's "flying out of danger" song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbQgXeY_zi4) Music video is NSFW (scenes in a cartoon strip club and later gore/blood)
> 
> ~Leon


	4. CHAPTER TWO: LET'S NOT PRETEND

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can waste your precious time  
> Trying to erase all your thin little crimes...  
> Why trade old habits for new found devotions  
> When you can shed your skin  
> And slither in with some new friends...  
> Paint everything blue that used to be red...  
> You may get rich  
> Or maybe you will drown  
> So let's begin  
> The question is not if, but when"
> 
> ~Crooked Fingers, Let's Not Pretend
> 
> (Reyes is persuasive. Jesse is suspicious. Lena remains shaken.)

Debriefing came and went in a pleasantly mundane blur. Medics hovered around them both checking for signs of hearing damage, or splinters of glass, but they were both cleared for active duty and allowed the rest of the day off. Heath seemed to be taking his near-death experience rather well; Lena, on the other hand, was still shaking like a leaf. He didn’t look up from his clipboard and paperwork even when she clutched at it to try and get his attention.

“I don’t understand why you’re still up in arms about this, Oxton. There’s a reason they give these things windshields of ballistic glass”

He reached back and rapped his knuckles on the silver carapace of the drop ship for emphasis. Lena rocked back on her heels. Under the spotlights of the hangar and surrounded by engineers, it was painfully obvious how much of a beating the ship had taken. The belly was streaked black with soot, and the whole front section was riddled with pockmarks and scratches where bullets had ricocheted from it. Not for the first time since landing, her eyes were drawn to the cockpit, and the little white patch on the windshield where the glass had been spidered into opacity. She remembered sitting right there in the seat, leaning up to try and catch a glimpse of the shooter, and then suddenly there’d been a bullet heading right for the space between her eyes. Heath saw her staring hard at the windshield and scoffed gently.

“Lena, come on, it’s not like he landed the shot.”

“But what if he had done?”

“Then you’d be dead, and I would be one very sad man looking for a black suit to wear-”

“That’s not what I meant. Do you think they would’ve, y’know, put him on death row?”

At that Heath glanced up. Setting his pen between his teeth and handing over his clipboard to an eager assistant, he waved Lena over as he began climbing the frail network of scaffolding which had been erected over the nose of the dropship.

“Heath?”

“None of that. Come up here, will you?”

His tone brooked no dissent. Reluctantly, she obliged. The scaffolding rocked slightly as Heath leaned over and tapped the windshield.

“Tell me what that little stamp there says, Oxton.”

“It says “Shockglass, produced by T.H Limited”

“Do you know how they do quality control on Shockglass?”

“I’m guessing they shoot at it.”

“You’d be right. But not with handguns Lena: I’m talking AK’s, Gatling guns, high-caliber sniper rifles. There’s no way he would’ve got anything through here.”

“How do you know he wasn’t shooting with a rifle though?”

Heath smiled and Lena glanced away. Even when he was teaching her something important, he sounded like he was teasing. Laughing from the faint creases beside his mouth; from his amused green eyes. Saying, somehow, with his carefree posture that she still had a lot to learn.

“Caught the tail-end of the argument between Reyes and Morrison as they disembarked; Morrison was saying he was gonna have Reyes’ ass for trying to make a fool of him.”

“I don’t understand; they always argue after missions.”

Heath sighed and his tone changed; cajoled her into putting the pieces together.

“If he’d been shooting with a sniper rifle, the windshield might’ve cracked. But it didn’t. Now consider how angry Morrison was at Reyes, at something he’d told him.”

“So…The shooter didn’t have a high-powered gun.”

“Getting there.”

“And if he didn’t have a high-powered gun…It probably didn’t have a scope.”

Heath settled back against the railing, gestured for her to continue with a few small nods.

“And if he didn’t have a scope…How could he have landed the shot?”

“Exactly.”

He flicked at the spidered area of glass again, the little divot carved out by the shooter’s fire.

“He wasn’t aiming for you, Lena, it was a stray bullet. Pot luck that he even hit the windshield at all, at that kind of distance. He was just trying to keep the teams at a distance to buy enough time to escape.”

Lena looked out across the hangar, up to the little square of light near the ceiling that marked Jack’s office. It was easy to imagine the two muscular figures of the commanders silhouetted up there; twisting and becoming more angular as they argued. But Gabriel Reyes was not the sort of man to be wrong about something like this; as unlikely as it sounded, if he said the shooter had been sniping with a handgun, she could think of no reason for him to be lying. The scaffolding rocked again as Heath stood back up, sliding briskly down the ladder into a neat landing. Feeling the divoted Shockglass staring at her, she followed and absorbed herself in assisting with repairs.

 

* * *

 

His head hurt.

That, and his throat was dry as baked earth. A steady pounding ache began behind the shooter’s eyes as he sat up weakly in his seat, blinking away the grit in the corners of his eyes. He moved to stretch, only to be bound by the quiet chink of handcuffs against the surface of the metal table; his hands chained where they could be seen. He gave them an experimental tug and twist, but they were well made and he wasn’t getting out of them any time soon. His surroundings were quite familiar though; an interrogation room. Much nicer than the ones in Manuelito, which was where he was usually carted off to if the jumpbikes weren’t quick enough or the local cops felt particularly energetic. Bigger than the ones which were strung along the highway like pearls. He listed them off in his head as he glanced around, looking for identifying marks. Not Mentmore, Rehoboth, or Coolidge. Too clean to be either Quemado or Paraje. Could’ve been Phoenix, perhaps, but his recollection of that room was fuzzy at best and he’d later been told it had been a fleeting visit of only ten minutes.

A tight look of confusion and discontent began to settle on his face when his frayed and worn mental map of the southern U.S failed to provide any red pins for him. He recognized the mirror along the wall though, so he sat back in the chair and glared through the one-way glass as best he could before picking a spot on the wall and boring a hole through it with his eyes. Behind the mirror, Morrison pursed his lips.

“Not the first time he’s seen a one way mirror then.”

“You kidding? Most of the small-town police stations south of Santa Fe know this kid.”

“We know how old he is?”

Reyes shrugged, moving to flip idly through a thick manilla file. He pinched the stick of his cherry lollipop between his teeth as he read. Morrison watched the kid watch the wall, and Reyes resisted the urge to smile.

“Can’t be sure. Guys in Los Lunas booked him as seventeen; another station in Winslow’s put him at fifteen. Different names every time.”

“Uh huh. Please tell me he at least remembers the real one.”

The smile hiding behind Reyes’ teeth came forwards at that as he headed for the door, gesturing with his lolly through the mirror as he did so.

“Lets go ask him then. And get Angela in here; kid’s been holding himself funny in that chair for an hour now.”

Before Morrison could protest, Reyes had let himself into the interrogation room and sat in the chair opposite the kid, one arm thrown over the back of his chair as though at home in front of the t.v. The shooter trained his glare on Reyes now. Weird eyes, Reyes thought. He laid the file on the table between them.

The shooter’s eyes shifted away again. Reyes watched the tense set of his narrow shoulders for a moment; just took him in. The medics cleaned him up a bit when it’d been lights out in the drop ship; white butterfly stitches bridged a thin wound which traced over his furrowed brow; a big beige plaster spread up over the sharp line of his jaw. His clothes were still dusty and rumpled; dark and rough like the boy who wore them. A red scarf encircled the skinny length of his throat and the brown plaid of his shirt was speckled with dried blood and oil and God knew what else. He had the sort of face Morrison would dislike in an instant. High cheekbones, a wide, frowning mouth decorated with snakebites; eyes that said fuck you with as much vehemence as his pierced tongue. Unruly brown hair which fell around his face in such a way as to suggest he’d cut it himself. Upper lip dusted with such little stubble it threw off Reyes’ judgments about his age.

He might’ve been cute, or handsome at a push, if he hadn’t been so plastered in freckles.

The shooter spoke first.

“How many of us?”

Reyes bit gently at his cherry candy before replying.

“How many we arrest, or how many we killed?”

The shooter twitched and Reyes pursued the nerve he’d just exposed with unswerving tenacity.

“Twenty eight of one, seven of the other. I’ll let you decide which number goes where.”

The shooter sucked in a gasp between his teeth; attempted to hide a flicker of pain at the expansion of his chest which Reyes did not miss. So he hadn’t been a recent acquisition. Reyes switched gears easily.

“How much they pay you?”

“To do what?”

An impatient gesture with the lolly stick. A non-answer.

“Anything. Take out the trash, wait at the bar, lift boxes.”

“To scout they paid me plenty. More if I was shootin’”

“They let you shoot?”

“Sometimes.”

Reyes listed that in his head as in case of emergencies. He thought of the gun in the worn leather holster lying on the desk where Morrison was watching them and changed his angle of attack again.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?”

The shooter shrugged.

“Y’know. Around.”

“Uh huh. Who taught you?”

“Just a guy, and beer bottles off the back fence.”

It was clear the kid was getting rattled by all the different questions; good. Reyes wasn’t going to give him the chance to get his feet under him enough for the sass to come out. Keep him on his toes, and he might just tell me something useful.

“Alright. Who gave you the gun?”

Again, the shooter’s eyes moved away. Reyes realized quickly it’s a tell of his. No answer. Time for some more important questions.

“So the gun was a present from Santa Claus, fair enough. What’s your name?”

“Jesse. Jesse McCree.”

“That your real name?”

“Not on my school records it ain’t.”

Smart kid. Reyes rolled the candy around his mouth and ignored the way Jesse was trying to burn a hole between his eyes with his glare.

“Says on your records you stopped attending school when you were thirteen; first time you were picked up was in Santa Fe for shoplifting; fourteen then. When did you join up?”

Jesse sniffed, sat back as far as his chained wrists would allow; another flicker of pain crossed his face.

“Got the ink the night after they let me outta slam in Manuelito for stealing a bike, if that’s what you mean.”

“So fourteen. How old are you now?”

“Three months from eighteen.”

On the other side of the glass Morrison cursed.

Reyes sat up from the chair suddenly; fear blossomed in Jesse’s mismatched eyes. Haven’t even made like I’m gonna even do anything. Damn, what’d they do to this kid?

“Where you goin’?”

“Out. Be back soon.”

He slipped from the questioning room before Jesse could protest. Morrison was on him like a ton of hot bricks as soon as he was on the other side of the glass. Reyes hushed him with his hand and flicked his lolly stick into the bin. Anger wasn’t an expression which suited Morrison’s poster-perfect face, he thought.

“Seventeen, Gabe. Fucking seventeen.”

“Three months from eighteen, you heard the kid.”

Morrison looked back out through the glass. Jesse was slouched back in his chair now, hunching forwards and fidgeting with his hands. Reyes could see the scabs cresting the tops of his knuckles even from here. As he watched, Jesse absently began to pick at one. Morrison scowled.

“What do you want with him anyway. Someone fail a drugs test or something?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jack. You saw the gun he was carrying.”

The gun in question currently laid, unloaded, in it’s holster on the desk. Jack picked it up gently and ran the worn leather belt through his hands, moving the pad of his thumb over the extra holes which had been punched in it to make it fit around Jesse’s slender waist. Reyes watched the gears turn on Jack’s face carefully; lined up responses like cards in the palm of his hand. After a moment Jack gestured with the gun to Jesse’s slumped figure.

“And you’re sure there wasn’t a rifle?”

“C’mon. I know both of our teams crawled over that building before we caught him; if there was a rifle we’d have found it.”

“So he’s got good aim, so what?”

“He landed a shot on our dropship from 500 yards away. That’s nearly half a mile, Jack. And with that pea shooter.”

“At higher calibers that same shot could’ve been a killing one, Gabe. You want that kind of carelessness on your team? I think we’ve got enough trigger happy soldiers out there.”

Reyes shrugged the veiled insult off easily, watched Jesse bounce his leg impatiently (nervously?) beyond the glass.

“That’ll get beaten out of him in basic, if not, I’ll stamp it out myself. You’d let that kind of talent rot in jail?”

“He’s shot people, Gabe. Killed. Some of our own too.”

“Like we haven’t shot people, Jack, come on. Besides, he might have intel as to whether there were other outposts, in case there’s any chance of Deadlock coming back. We’ve got a chance to train him from the ground up; shape him into what we need. No vying for the respect of old SAS guys or skimming off bad apples from the millitary.”

Reyes saw that that was the clincher for Jack. Technically speaking, he didn’t need his permission: Blackwatch was it’s own entity and Gabriel had more authority over it than Jack. But they did the dirty work, and, legally at least, don’t exist, so he still had to ask for rights to leftovers like this. Jack set the revolver and it’s holster down with a clunk.And as much as he liked the look of the kid’s aim, there were other motivations. Deadlock got all it’s money from courier business across the border; as a result, most of those they busted weren’t of Jack’s heritage, not entirely. Gabriel knew from his own experience how much it rankled to have to roll oneself up in the stars and stripes for protection, or to fit in, and he’d seen kids with that Spanish lilt to their words go to prison for smaller stuff than what Jesse had undoubtedly racked up over the years. He couldn’t save everyone, but damn it all if he was going to let a seventeen year old mixed boy end up in max-sec.

“Fine. But he’s your problem. I hear one, one complaint about trouble and he’s off to ADMAX with the rest of his buddies.”

Reyes smiled serenely even as Jack attempted to gather his thunderclouds. He’d won this round, and they both knew it. The anger from earlier returned to Jack’s face darkly; bubbling up from underneath. What a field day the papers would have if they knew Jack had broken desks in fits of rage before.

Angela breezed in as Jack all but stormed out. She watched him go with a vague concern that was brushed away by a little gesture of Reyes’ hand. He invited her to stand beside him at the one way mirror.

“Is this the one you picked up from the last mission?”

“One of a few. He’s the only one I intend to keep around though.”

“I see. You messaged me expressing concern about his breathing?”

“Could be just nerves. He’s been holding himself strange in that chair for a while now though, thought it best for you to take a look at him before we do anything else.”

As if to prove Reyes’ point, Jesse worried at his lower lip slightly as he went to cross his arms and decided against it. Angela hitched up her little kit and gestured for Reyes to go before her. As soon as she entered the room, Jesse schooled his expression to polite distrust. That didn’t stop Reyes from missing the flicker of surprise on his face. It was a little cruel to call Angela down of all of them, but it was a statement in it’s own way. She wasn’t much older than him, but the badge on her white coat read CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER clearly enough even for a hick like Jesse to read.

He bristled in the chair when Angela pulled her latex gloves on.

“Now now, I’m just going to look.”

He relaxed just enough to let her open his shirt. Reyes couldn’t figure out the distant look of unease Jesse suddenly shot towards the wall, until the buttons on his shirt began to open and the compressive bandages became visible. Oh.

Angela clicked her tongue and shook her head; not the first time she’s seen this before apparently. Reyes felt compelled to glance away as she investigated Jesse’s handiwork. A fierce red heat burned in the kid’s face as Angela moved to untuck the end and-

“Please don’t.”

Reyes felt more than saw the weighty look he shared with her. And then Angela was stepping back and yanking off her gloves with a breezy little my apologies and standing beside the door like nothing happened. Jesse scrambled to button his shirt back up. When Reyes looked back at him, some of Jesse’s sureshot confidence and bluster seemed to have gone. Best not to let it fester. With a quick motion of Reyes’ hands, Jesse’s handcuffs were separated from the table. He left the steel bracelets on though, just in case.

“Come along then, Mr. McCree, all new recruits are required to undergo a preliminary examination.”

Jesse remained obstinately in the chair. Angela spoke in a soothing voice, skillfully evading the impatient doctor tone.

“You can see a male physician, if you would prefer.”

There was a mumbled reply of something along the lines of alright fine and Jesse rose to his feet. Reyes resisted the urge to shout at him to stand up straight and waved Angela on ahead. As they walked, he made sure Jesse saw the sidearms all the people around him were carrying, and he noted the way those amber eyes settled on the differences between the blue uniforms and the occasional black ones. He also saw the way Jesse’s eyes snapped to every opening and closing door; the signs and arrows printed on the walls as he scrambled to build a map in his head. Clever.

Reyes waited for him to speak first. It was about two minutes into their little stroll that Jesse realized he wasn’t in a police station.

“Are you military?”

“Me, or everyone else?”

Jesse shrugged, not really caring for what answer he got.

“I was, got transferred here a while back. Our organization as a whole, however, is commanded by the U.N.”

“So you ain’t police, and you ain’t soldiers…What do you do here?”

“Whatever we need to. Go through that door on the left for me, will you?”

They entered the room. It was an unlocked conference room, empty and clean. The view, however, was what Reyes brought them in there for. Through the length of the windows, the furthest end of the airstrip was just visible. Blank rooftops bristling with antennas in the foreground and beyond that, one rugged mountain after another. The black ant of a quad bike being driven across the airstrip helpfully provided scale.

“How much do you know about Overwatch, McCree?”

The kid’s head snapped back towards him. He fidgeted with his hands before him; a nervous tick. A fidget, then. The motion hammered home how young he really was. Three months from eighteen. Reyes thought about his squad, the years of experience they all held in their separate fields. Compared to them, he really was just a kid. But there was also potential there, so Reyes neatly sidestepped the ethically questionable choice he was making (the phrase child soldier came to mind) and leant on the table beside his (hopefully) newest charge.

“Dunno. Seem to be in the news a lot I guess.”

“You know Jack Morrison?”

“Blond guy on the posters, right.”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“So who’re you?”

Reyes smiled gently despite himself. Jesse caught it and saw something that made him uneasy again. The way he was leaning on the table, the smile, hell, even the lack of the tactical armor he’d been wearing during the raid, all broadcast the idea that Reyes was at ease, less threatening. But he was anything but. Something about the way he crossed his arms reminded Jesse of the way the mechanisms inside the Gatling guns they’d shifted once moved when they were firing. The guy was built like a fucking tank and didn’t even seem to notice. Jesse’s head helpfully replays the sound of the doors splintering downstairs when the troops had stormed into the saloon.

“That I can’t tell you till you’re in. If you want.”

“Not much of a choice. Jail or Overwatch.”

“Join me and you won’t be with Overwatch. Not in practice.”

“I ain’t a soldier.” And Jesse knew it was a stupid comment to make because he knew Overwatch weren’t military, but he couldn’t think what else to say.

“No. Maybe not yet. But everything you did with Deadlock and got loose change for? Here I’ll actually pay you. You wanna shoot? I’ll train you how to shoot the balls off a fly from a mile away. All I’m looking for is an agreement that you’ll do as told, follow my every instruction, and do your damnedest to leave the gang behind.”

“How do I know when I’ve done all’a that. When I’ve held up my end of the deal.”

Reyes looked out over the airstrip and they both watched a gleaming silver drop ship arc up into the cloudless sky. The yellow and white insignia on it’s tail winking at them. The kid wanted a straight deal; fair enough.

“You get through basic training without issue. Two, you complete any additional training I feel you might require. You work as part of my squad on five missions of each kind we run: there’s four. Three, you testify against your friends in court. So - training. Extra instruction. Twenty ops total. Grassing on the rest of Deadlock. And if, somewhere after that time, not before, you decide that you’ve had enough of us, you can leave. No questions asked. I won’t even put a tracker on you.”

“Sounds like a mighty long spell to not be a soldier for.”

“It’ll take as long as you decide it’s going to take. I don’t think you’ll be going back to that asscrack of a canyon anytime soon after though. You won’t want to, not after we’re finished.”

“How can be so sure of that? Could be years down the line.”

Reyes shrugged. He already knew what he was going to hear.

“Because you wouldn’t be the first.”

Jesse’s eyes roamed the shimmering expanse of the airstrip; the windows which flashed like so many mirrors in the high sun; the acres of rooftops; the constant chatter and discordant noise he could hear from outside. For a moment, the ceaseless fidgeting of his hands stilled.

“What’s in it for me. Aside from not going to jail?”

“At the moment? That’s really it. There could be more though. Medals, titles maybe, if Morrison takes a shine to you. Money, clean money, if you want it.” Reyes glanced away, toed the line anyway. “Stuff to help men like you too, if you decide you want it. You met Angela; she’s one of the best doctors in the world. Her team’s better than any clinic you can pay for.”

Reyes couldn’t tell what decided it for Jesse. Perhaps it was the thought of regular money and food that got him; or maybe the idea of not suffering under his bandages was especially appealing. Either way, he turned away from the window and met Reyes’ guarded gaze.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent. People are waiting for you outside to show you to the medical wing for your physical, and to get your uniform. You’ll be expected in Hangar 4 at 1400 hours, sharp. I’m Commander Reyes, welcome to Blackwatch.”

And then the door was opening behind them and uniformed people (all wearing black) came in and ushered Jesse away, not gently, but not harshly either. Reyes waited until he heard the footsteps disappear before he checked his comm and headed off to his next engagement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I like to imagine that Reyes captured multiple Deadlock members for court/legal purposes, but only decided when Jesse was incarcerated that he wanted him on his side. I would also like to take this chance to remind my readers that binding with tape/bandages is NOT safe and Jesse only does so because he doesn't know better and currently does not have access to proper binding materials.
> 
> References:
> 
>  
> 
> [An idea of what Jesse did to the dropship windshield](http://bulletproofnanotechnology.weebly.com/uploads/1/4/4/6/14460276/5726312.jpg?330)  
> (though Shockglass is a fictional brand name).
> 
> [The questioning room ](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/a9/54/5f/a9545f7e64d68bffc7fed26cade20871.jpg)(though I imagine the walls to be white-painted, and for there to be fixtures on the table for handcuffs to be passed through).
> 
>  
> 
> As always, comments, reviews and constructive criticism are both welcomed and encouraged. Hearing from you guys keeps me motivated and helps me to write better, faster.
> 
> ~Leon


End file.
